Marry Me - Falice Oneshot
by DamnLotor
Summary: Her daddy don't know, he's not the only one giving her away.


He could remember the day she ran out into the street in her little white dress, and cheap fabric veil. She chased after him with that bouquet of dandelions with all the stubborn playful determination of a six year old. Even when she tripped on her dress straight into a mud puddle, she got up, and scurried across his lawn, over to him and begged him to marry her. _"Marry me!"_ She laughed at him, bouncing up and down on her bare feet, looking at him with all the innocence in the world. As he looked back at her. Eight years old. Waving his hands as he told her no, and laughed at the way she frowned, and pouted. _"It's pretend!"_ She had told him, following him across the grass, wiping the dirt and sweat from her face, only smearing it around even more.

In his jean overalls, his hair cow licked and dirty, he tossed a soccer ball her way, and she kicked it straight into his face. When his nose bled she laughed at him. He remembered the feeling of her dress against his nose when he had looked at her angrily. She'd ran over quickly and squeezed the white fabric of her dress to his nose. _"You hurt me."_ He'd said. _"I didn't mean to! You threw the ball at me!"_ She had replied.

Her white play dress was covered in mud and crimson, but she didn't seem to care. The flowers she'd been carrying were scattered about the yard, quickly wilting. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. _"If you married me I'd always take care of your boo-boos."_ She'd told him. His face flushed, and she touched it, curious.

His eyes never left her as he wiped at the crusted blood under his nose, and he heard her mother calling for her. "Alice!" Her mother had yelled, and she'd went running from him. He stared after her.

He remembered that day anytime she wore a white dress.

So it was of no surprise, that as he stepped into the brightly lit church, his mind flashed back to that day. He'd signed the register, listened to the words of people who hadn't seen him in a while. "Good to see you, FP." They said with smiles on their faces. "Such a happy day." They proclaimed. He nodded at them, and his lips turned up at one corner, crookedly giving them a stiff nod. It was good enough.

His boots thudded against the floor as he walked down the hallway, headed for the bathroom. He wasn't dressed properly, but no one had made any comments. Looks were pointed his way. 'Disgrace' was the theme of those looks. He didn't care, he didn't come for them. He wasn't even sure why he'd come. The hallway was cleared at his presence, the look in his eyes enough to part the red sea. The bathroom mirror was too clear. Clearer than his thoughts as he raked his fingers through his hair, ruining the right sided comb he'd worked forever on. His hand went to his back pocket, knowing there was a burning metal encased cure for his blues in it. His shaky hand moved away from his pocket. If he was going to be there, he was going to be there sober.

He was sure he'd mustered up the courage and pushed back his pride by the time he pushed open the bathroom door, and turned right to go back down the hall. "FP." A voice said, so fimilar that his heart lurched in his chest on instinct. He turned, despite every nerve in his body telling him not to, and there she was. White dress, with the lace sleeves running down her shoulders to her wrists. That blonde hair in curls falling along her shoulders down her back. All that was missing was the veil. No. He thought as his eyes shifted down, she was holding it.

Their eyes met, and it seemed like forever that they were staring at each other. Their chests rising and falling with their breathes. She stepped forward, and he was certain the world had turned opposite in rotation. "Not good enough?" He asked her. The look in her eyes flashed to confusion and surprise. "I..." she started, her skin flushing.

"My outfit," he added, "Is my _outfit_ not good enough..." His facial expression blank. She blinked, and her tongue darted out to her lips.

"Oh." She whispered, like a fragile ray of sun.

When she stepped forward, touching his crooked black tie, his eyes darted to her agile fingers. Those fingers slid along his white shirt and onto the leather jacket over it. "It's perfect." She told him. He almost believed her. He watched as her brow furrowed, and her fingers moved up to touch the healing purple bruise on his cheek. The yellow ring around it showing it's age. He gritted his teeth at the pain her fingertips caused along that wound. Their eyes met again, and her hand moved down to her side.

"You always wanted to get married." He spoke softly, and her lips pulled up at the corners. "Yes." She chuckled, as though she was thinking of a fond memory. Perhaps of planning her wedding when she was little, acting it out.

He bit at his tongue, yet, he could not keep his mouth closed. "Except this time, not to me."

Her breath seemed to stop for a moment, and he knew the rarely speechless woman from bottom to top; she stood there without words to pour from her soft pink lips. As he stood there, an unwavering regret in his eyes. She moved with a gentle haste around him, her arm brushing against the side of his jacket sleeve. He stayed there, standing with his back to her as she walked away. His eyes locked on the floor several feet away. Suddenly the flask in his back pocket seemed more important than air itself.

His body turned, despite the fact it was the last thing he wanted to do. He dug into his back pocket, and pulled out the silver flask. Taking a strong shot of whiskey straight from it, he loosened his black tie even further and headed up the hallway. Though his resolve was to stay, as he reached the gift table, several yards from the door, he felt a tug at his feet to lead him far away. Shoving the flask back into his pocket, he stepped over to the table. His jacket slid off his arms, and down his back. Bringing it in front of himself, he stared at the emblem.

The orbs of his eyes shifted to the side, and he watched her, white dress, blonde hair, standing near the chapel doors. As he turned to the entrance of the church, the sun from the glass door shining against his face, his jacket, and his heart were left in that pile of wrapped gifts.


End file.
